Money Heist // t.h.

11 - Now

The next day you were woken up by a door slamming shut. It didn't bother you too much since you had gotten used to it ever since you started staying over at Tom's place more often. His brothers and Harrison often treated the apartment as theirs, coming and going as they pleased.

"Wakey wakey," Harrison slammed his hand on the door of the bedroom, "eggs and 60 grand."

"That doesn't even rhyme," you said, still half asleep. You sat up straight, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. Tom was, with his limbs splayed out in every direction, still sound asleep, soft snores escaping his mouth every now and then. You patted his chest lightly but to no effect.

"Tommy, get up," you shook him at his shoulder now. He looked so peaceful, a bit messy, but certainly, he did not look like a person who had robbed a bank at gunpoint just one day ago. Sure, the gun he pointed was fake and could do no damage, but the mindset was there. A mindset you two now shared, in a way. You were just as eager that previous morning to go to work and get it rolling. Tom had, on several occasions, asked you if you were sure you wanted to do this. Unofficially and indirectly trying to get you out of trouble before it was too late. But you didn't care. You had found a side of yourself you never knew existed. The planning, the scheming, it was exciting. It gave you a high like nothing else. And now it was over, and it was done, and you were lying in bed with him like nothing ever happened.

Harrison banged on the door, and the noise finally woke Tom up. He jumped up startled, his hair poking out in every which way.

"I'm up, I'm up!" he shouted at his friend.

"So get your ass out here, then!" Harrison shouted back. You glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just past eleven. You had spent the entire night celebrating and drinking and only went to bed around 3, so it was a pretty good night's rest.

Tom found his underwear, and you found a clean shirt (of Tom's) to pull over your head, and wrapped in each other's arms, you walked out into the living room.

There, where one day, so long ago, you had stumbled in to see Tom flipping pancakes in his boxers and an apron, you were now met with the view of Harrison, he stood at the kitchen counter, in dark green overalls, three black trash bags left on the counter in front of him. Harry was sitting on one of the bar stools, sipping on his morning tea.

"Well, let's see it then," Tom said enthusiastically.

"I thought I'd let the lady to the honors."

You didn't need to hear it twice. Quickly, you untangled yourself from Tom's embrace and walked over to the counter. The smell was not the freshest, but it didn't matter.

"Are you sure you took the right ones?" Tom quipped.

"Fuck off, next time you can get up at five in the morning to pick up trash."

You opened the bag nearest to you and stuck your hand inside, and Harrison shut up. Harry put down his mug, and all three men looked at you in anticipation. When you pulled it back out, your fist was filled with hundred dollar banknotes. The four of you erupted in a choir of elated cheers.